


Scary Stories To Tell At The End Of The World

by apocalypseballads



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Gen, at least in Daryl's case ahahahaha, couple of swear words and generally spooky subject matter, even if it's presented in the least spooky way imaginable, it's cute and fluffy because too much angst gives me heartburn, or falling in love, rating is mostly just to be safe, the one where they tell ghost stories and tease each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypseballads/pseuds/apocalypseballads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tossed her own handful of dried leaves onto the little fire, glanced up at the fingernail sliver of the moon. Turned her eyes to Daryl, startled a little to find him watching her. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, shrugged.</p>
<p>“On a campout you’d… I dunno, make s’mores and take turns singin’ songs on the guitar.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” A flick of his fingers sent another twig to its doom. He shuffled through the dry mulch around them, attention slipping, uninterested in the proposed activities.</p>
<p>“Tell ghost stories.”</p>
<p>His eyes darted up, caught hers.</p>
<p>“Ghost stories, huh?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scary Stories To Tell At The End Of The World

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted my two favorite dorks to have a little fun with dumb ghost stories, because these are a few of my favorite things. Set during that nebulous time between ‘Still’ and ‘Alone,’ when Daryl was just beginning to have ~feelings~ for Beth.
> 
> Please bear in mind, I am playing fast and loose with most of these stories. Any confusion or doubt that Beth and Daryl express in regards to the accuracy of the tales is mostly just me talking to myself through the two of them.
> 
> Not beta’d, any and all errors are my own.

  


“Nights like this really make me miss summer campouts.”

“Ain’t that what we’re doin’ right now?”

“Well, I mean… it’s not even summer anymore. And we’re not doin’ any of the real camp stuff, so. Not really.”

Daryl shifted where he sat to her left, tossed a handful of twigs and leaves onto the tiny blaze in front of them. Sparks flew up briefly, winked like tiny orange stars, suffocated into nothingness in the next second.

“What would make this a real campout, then?”

“Hm?”

“Not like I ever been on a _real_ campout, you know… like back when you asked, before.”

“Oh.”

Beth paused, momentarily contrite at her social clumsiness. She tossed her own handful of dried leaves onto the little fire, glanced up at the fingernail sliver of the moon. Turned her eyes to Daryl, startled a little to find him watching her. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, shrugged.

“On a campout you’d… I dunno, make s’mores and take turns singin’ songs on the guitar.”

“Hm.” A flick of his fingers sent another twig to its doom. He shuffled through the dry mulch around them, attention slipping, uninterested in the proposed activities.

“Tell ghost stories.”

His eyes darted up, caught hers.

“Ghost stories, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno, I never really knew any good ones, I mostly just listened to everyone else.”

He cast his own glance up to the Cheshire Cat smile of the moon.

“You like that kind of stuff?”

“I guess? I mean… it was never really my favorite thing to do, I got scared easy. All that stuff about strangers in the backseat and dead dogs and stuff. It made me feel weird. Kinda jumpy.”

He smirked at her slightly.

“Still feel that way?”

“Well, there are dead people walkin’ around, now, you kinda grow a thicker skin about some things after a while.”

He huffed out a laugh, rubbed his hands together briefly.

“Well, guess that means you won’t be too scared to show me the ways of campfire ghost stories?”

She looked at him, saw the smile playing about his lips, recognized the challenge.

Tilted her chin up slightly.

“Only if you start.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, that’s the rule. Campout virgin goes first.”

She thought she saw him blush a little, couldn’t be sure with the orange glow of the fire.

“Can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

He blew all the air out of his lungs, shifted again, a little awkwardly, picked at the mulch some more.

“Come on, you’re stallin’.”

“Nah, just tryin’ t’think of which one I wanna tell.”

“How many ghost stories d’you know?”

“Lots, I guess. I just… I used to hear ‘em a lot, before. When I was little. Kids ‘round my block’d play Bloody Mary, take turns scarin’ each other shitless, that kinda thing. Lots of times they wouldn’t let me play, said I was too little.”

She stared at him, drank in the unexpected deluge of tiny truths from his past.

“Guess that’s what really got me interested, the not bein’ included. Wanted to learn more just to piss ‘em off, you know? Show ‘em I wasn’t scared of the pants-shitting stuff.”

“Did your brother play, too?”

“Nah, he wasn’t around for most of it.”

She felt him close off, slightly, felt the barrier come up. Decided to tread back to smoother waters.

“What was your favorite one?”

“Back then? I dunno… Lots of ‘em stuck with me, La Llorona maybe the most.”

“Is that the one about the woman who drowned her children?”

“Yeah, then after she did it she drowned herself. Just somethin’ really sad about that one, made me… Well, just got to me. You ever heard of Rawhead and Bloody Bones?”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

“It ain’t. See, Rawhead and Bloody Bones was kinda like La Llorona. It came about as a way for folks to keep their kids away from dangerous places, like ponds and wells and stuff. So they’d tell ‘em, ‘You keep away from there, or Rawhead and Bloody Bones will come out and drag you down, down, down, and you’ll never see us again.’”

“Not a very admirable example of parentin’.”

“Guess it didn’t have t’be, if it worked.”

“We had a duck pond, and the lake. I probably woulda been too scared to ever go near them again, if my daddy’d told me that story.”

They quieted then, casting their eyes down briefly.

Beth cleared her throat, unwilling to let their good moment go so soon.

“You said those ones were your favorite back then. Does that mean you have a favorite one now that you didn’t used to like?”

“Just this one, I didn’t even hear about it til I was already grown. It’s not so much a ghost story, more a superstition… or a legend, I guess, ‘bout a creature that lives in the wild ‘round these parts.”

“What kind of creature?”

“Chupacabra.”

Beth snorted, tried hard to keep it in, but burst out into giggles regardless.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Don’t bat an eye at all them dead people tap dancin’ around, but a chupacabra’s too much to ask?”

But he was smiling, too, unoffended.

“It’s just, Jimmy mentioned once that he heard you say you saw one. He was freaked out by it, but I think mostly it’s that he was freaked out by you, more’n anything.”

They both went quiet for another moment, remembering. Trying _not_ to remember. But Daryl shuffled again, picked up a twig and started twirling it between his fingers.

“Yeah, well, that’d have been his mistake, then. Chupacabra’s nothin’ to sneeze at.”

“Why not? What’s it do?”

“Clamps down on your neck and sucks all your blood out, for one thing.”

“But that’s what vampires do, and they’re not scary.”

“You ever seen somethin’ three or four feet tall, looks like a hairless dog with spines all down its back and big ol’ empty eyes, hoppin’ along like some kangaroo from Hell?”

“... no.”

“Well, I have. That’s what the chupacabra looks like, an’ it ain’t a pretty sight.”

“When did you see it?”

“While back. I was out huntin’, came across it in the woods.”

“What’d you do?”

“Turned tail and ran my ass back to camp. Don’t take chances with that shit.”

“You didn’t try and catch it?”

“Nah. Catch it, I’d’ve had to kill it. Didn’t really wanna be the one to kill a legend, you know? ‘Sides, what’d I have done with it? Not puttin’ somethin’ like that in my mouth, and sure as hell couldn’t mount it or anything.”

“Yeah, that probably woulda looked kind of silly hangin’ off the front of your bike.”

“Truer words.”

They smiled at each other, chuckling again. Tossed more leaves onto the fire.

“Your turn, now.”

“What?”

“I told mine, now you gotta tell one.”

“That hardly counts as a whole story!”

“Hey, you asked, I told. That’s the rule.”

“That’s not the rule. You don’t know the rules.”

“Now who’s stallin’, Greene?”

She huffed, tossed a leaf at his face, which he caught on its meagre descent five inches short of its target.

“Ugh, I dunno. It’s like I said, I was never real good at tellin’ ‘em, I usually just listened.”

“You listened, means you must’ve learned how to tell ‘em right.”

“Ugh.”

“Hey, just say the first thing that pops into your head.”

“Okay, smart guy, very funny.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Nah.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“At least not sorry enough to let you off the hook.”

“Hook! That’s it, that’s one I can tell.”

“Story about hooks?”

“Yeah, the one about the couple at Lover’s Lane who hear the radio bulletin about the madman with a hook on the loose.”

“I know that one. They wind up drivin’ away, and when they open the door the hook is hangin’ off the handle?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Eh. Never did like that one.”

“It has a couple different endings. There’s one where they hear scratchin’ on the car’s roof, but when they look there’s nothin’ there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, only somehow it winds up that the girlfriend is left alone for a while, and when she hears the scratchin’ again she looks out and finds her boyfriend hangin’ from the tree above, and it’s his feet scratchin’ against the roof.”

“That really the same story?”

“I think? I dunno, it’s been a while.”

“Hm, still don’t like it much.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

The logs of their tiny fire trembled and jostled into a flatter pile. Daryl searched for a moment before finding a long stick and stabbing at the fallen logs, and Beth tossed a small handful of mulch on to feed the struggling flames.

“There’s the one about the babysitter who got the mysterious phone call.”

“How’s that one go?”

“This babysitter is alone at night, after she’s put the kids she’s watchin’ to bed.”

“She ain’t really alone, though, is she?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, she’s got the kids there, so she’s not really by herself.”

“Daryl.”

“Just sayin’.”

“It’s a technicality.”

“Sorry.”

The logs hissed absurdly. Beth glared at them.

“Anyway, so this girl is _home alone_ after she’s put the kids to bed, and she gets this phone call.”

“On her cell phone?”

“No, on a normal phone.”

“What year is this story set?”

“Uh, I guess before cell phones were a thing?”

“Only way it’d work, I guess.”

“You’re makin’ me lose concentration.”

“Sorry.”

“So the voice on the phone is this really gravelly male voice, and it goes, ‘Have you checked on the children?’”

“Y’said it’s gravelly?”

“Yeah, it’s a gravelly man’s voice.”

“So you gotta say it gravelly.”

“I’m not. It’s not-- Daryl, I’m not doing voices for this story.”

“It’d add some realism.”

“Suspend your disbelief for a while, why don’t you.”

“Just sayin’.”

“ _Fine_ , okay so the voice on the other end says, ‘ **Have you checked on the** ’-- oh my good Lord, no, that is killing my throat, you’re gonna have t’deal with it.”

Daryl snorted laughter, his shoulders actually shaking.

“You’re gonna sound even better singin’ those Tom Waits songs, you keep that up.”

“You’re hilarious.”

He shrugged. Flicked a leaf at her in retaliation for earlier.

“Tell the story.”

“Well, if _somebody_ would stop interruptin’ me.”

“Please, please continue the story that would be much better if you did voices but I guess I’m dealin’ with it, Miss Greene.”

“Since you said please, I s’pose.”

The logs hissed again. She picked up the stick that Daryl had abandoned and stabbed at them, a little more viciously than necessary. Heard Daryl snort again. Shot him an arched eyebrow.

“Anyway, the babysitter starts panickin’, cus how does this guy know who she is and what she’s doin’? So she hangs up real quick without answerin’ him, and she goes about doin’ whatever she’d been doin’.”

“What’d she been doin’?”

“I dunno, watchin’ tv, I guess?”

“Should say so, then.”

“Daryl, do you wanna tell this story, or should I?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“So the babysitter goes back to watchin’ tv, and then a few minutes later, the phone rings again.”

“She didn’t have caller ID?”

“The story’s set before caller ID, remember?”

“No, you said it was set before cell phones.”

“Same difference.”

“If you say so.”

“No, she did not have caller ID, because this story takes place in the nineteen-eighties, how’s that?”

“Could’ve opened with that.”

“That would’ve sounded dumb.”

“... kinda does, anyway.”

“Daryl.”

“I’ll stop.”

“You won’t.”

“Promise.”

She paused to grab his pinky with her own, forced the promise to assume physical form.

He blinked twice at her. Slowly looked down at their interlocked fingers.

Didn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” she said, retracting her finger, “The phone rings again, and the voice on the other end says-- well, it says the same thing it said before.”

“In the same voice?”

“Are you gonna break your promise already?”

“Sorry.”

“In the same voice, the voice says the same thing the same-soundin’ voice said before.”

“What.”

“Yes. So by now the babysitter is really worried, so she calls the police to report that she’s bein’ stalked by some crazy person.”

“How’d she know that, though?”

“Well, because some crazy person has been callin’ her repeatedly?”

“Yeah, but how’d she know it wasn’t just one of her friends playin’ a trick on her?”

“Maybe none of her friends knew she was there.”

“Seems like a teen girl woulda told all her friends where she was, so they could call and keep her company.”

“Maybe this girl didn’t have any friends.”

“I’m suspendin’ my disbelief a lot for this one, Beth.”

“You want me to tell a different story, or what?”

“Know any better ones?”

Beth thought for a moment, and Daryl stood briefly to collect a few more logs from the small pile they’d gathered to add to the fire. Stoking the dwindling flames back to life, Daryl cast her a glance and arched a brow.

“Tick tock.”

“I’m thinkin’! Well… there’s the one about the toe.”

“Uh.”

“You have to’ve heard that one, it’s been around for ages.”

“Callin’ me old, Greene?”

Another leaf went sailing at his face.

“So once upon a time, there was this old woman. Or was it an old man…? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, okay so there was this old woman, and she was out in the woods diggin’ for roots to add to her stew.”

“And what year is _this_ story set?”

“Before cell phones and caller ID and _would you stop interruptin’ me, Mr. Dixon_.”

He held his pinky up at her, nodding solemnly.

“So she’s diggin’ and diggin’, and she comes across this thing in the dirt that doesn’t look like a root. When she bends down to take a closer look, she realizes that it’s a toe.”

“Eurgh.”

“Right?”

“Just a toe? By itself?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. But times are hard, and she doesn’t have a lot of food and she hasn’t had meat in a while, so she thinks maybe she could eat the toe.”

“ _Eurgh_.”

“Yeah.”

“Kinda story is this?”

“Come on, she’s desperate.”

“Must be, to wanna eat a _toe_.”

“Well, she is. Desperate, I mean. So she takes the toe home, and she chops it up and adds it to the stew with all the roots she found, and she eats it all up and it’s delicious.”

“Know how we were talkin’ about suspendin’ disbelief?”

“It’s _delicious_ and she’s thankful to God because she hasn’t eaten real food in so long.”

“Dunno if I’d call that real food.”

“So that night, the old woman goes to bed and she falls right to sleep ‘cus she’s so full.”

“Full of toes.”

“Just the one. And she’s sleepin’ peacefully until suddenly she’s jolted awake ‘cus she hears this sound.”

“Maybe it’s the sound of her guts kickin’ up that delicious toe stew.”

“No, it’s the sound of shufflin’ feet. Far off in the distance, she hears the sound of shufflin’, uneven footsteps.”

“Beth, you puttin’ walkers in this story?”

“No, it’s… well, okay, kinda? But the story already went like this, I’m not takin’ artistic liberties.”

“Hm.”

“So these footsteps are gettin’ closer and closer, and very faintly she can hear a voice talkin’, too.”

“Is it a gravelly man’s voice?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, but I’m not doin’ voices for him, either.”

“Crushin’ my dreams.”

“I’m sure you’ll recover. So these footsteps are gettin’ closer, and the voice is gettin’ louder, and the woman is startin’ to get terrified ‘cus now she’s able to make out what it’s sayin’.”

“... what’s it sayin’?”

“ _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

“Skinny toe?”

“Yeah, skinny toe.”

“So she went to all this trouble to make a delicious toe stew and there probably wasn’t even enough meat on the damn thing to make it worth it?”

“Desperation does things to people, Daryl.”

“Desperation ain’t never made _me_ wanna eat a toe, least of all some skinny one that wouldn’t even make a good mouthful.”

“Well, that just means you’ll survive the ghost story.”

“Oh, you’re sayin’ the old lady doesn’t make it?”

“Lemme finish. So the voice and the footsteps are comin’ closer and closer, until they’re right outside her window. And the voice keeps on whisperin’, _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

The fire cracked loudly, punctuation to the question. Beth looked at it sharply, noticed Daryl’s eyes dart to it as well before darting sideways, casting a quick glance at their surroundings. Checking. Guarding.

“So then what?”

“So then the woman starts to pray, because she knows what happened to that toe. She knows who’s gotta be out there lookin’ for it, too.”

“Tell me it’s not a talkin’ walker.”

“It’s a talkin’ walker.”

“ _Eurgh_.”

“The footsteps are gettin’ closer, and now they’re around at the front of her little cottage, near the door.”

“The toeless talkin’ walker.”

“Is right at her door. And he’s still whisperin’ softly, _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

Daryl glanced around their camp again, eyes scanning the trees as their fire crackled merrily, spitting sharply when the bubbles of sap on some of the too-fresh logs popped. Beth inched minutely closer to him.

“The old woman is shakin’ and sweatin’, pullin’ the covers up over her head in fear, tryin’ to block out the awful sound of the thing’s approach. But it just keeps gettin’ closer, its footsteps louder, its menacin’ voice whisperin’ over and over, _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

She scooted closer to him, catching his gaze this time and smiling blithely. He swallowed, his eyes darting back to the trees.

“And then to her horror, she hears the front door open, slowly, _creeeeaaaak_. And then in the darkness, she can hear the shufflin’ feet makin’ their way down her hall, inch by inch, and all the while that voice is whisperin’, _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

Daryl picked up a twig, twisted it between his fingers, tossed it into the flames. Glanced at her again, as she scooted closer to him until their arms were almost touching.

“Now the thing is right outside her bedroom door, and she can hear it loud and clear, _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ And she’s cryin’ and prayin’, prayin’ that it’ll go away if she’s quiet enough, but then she hears it scratchin’ at the doorknob.”

Daryl caught her gaze and held it, throat bobbing gently as he swallowed again, his fingers idly picking up a leaf this time and slowly tearing it to pieces. He rubbed at the corner of his mouth with one thumb, casting his gaze down again. Beth leaned in a little closer. Dropped her voice.

“Then in the still, quiet darkness of her bedroom, her heart beatin’ so fast it feels like it might burst, she hears the thing push the door open and start shufflin’ up to her bed.”

Daryl flicked the shredded leaf onto the fire, watched the flames devour it. Spared her a tiny glance.

Beth leaned in.

“And she hears it whisper, standin’ right over her prone, terrified form,” and Beth bent her head until her mouth was right at Daryl’s ear, “ _'Who has my skinny toe?'_ ”

The moment stretched.

Daryl faced her, looked her in the eye.

They both breathed in, breathed out.

Daryl’s eyes flicked down.

“ _You’ve got it!_ ” Beth softly growled, both hands darting out quick as serpents striking to tickle him on either side.

Daryl jolted, drawing slightly away, and Beth laughed quietly in triumph.

“I gotcha!”

“Did not, you did not, stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself.” He rubbed briskly at the arm that had been pressed tight to hers, turning his head back towards the fire.

“I totally scared you!”

“Just startled me, is all.”

She grinned at him, not about to concede defeat. He turned and looked at her, one corner of his mouth going up as he shook his head slightly.

“So what happened to the old lady?”

“Dunno, it’s meant to be ambiguous.”

“I mean, the thing was right over her, though, not like she coulda run.”

“I think there’s a version where she tricks the thing into thinkin’ someone else had the toe, and the walker left her alone.”

“Who else woulda had it? She lived by herself.”

“Yeah, but in the other version I think she had a husband.”

“Nice of her, sellin’ out her old man.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a good husband.”

“Maybe she shouldn’ta eaten a toe she found lyin’ in the dirt in the first place.”

“Well, yeah, but then there wouldn’t be a story.”

They sat there, staring at each other with straight faces, before breaking down into near-hysteric giggles and half-smothered snorts a moment later.

The fire cracked again, the orange flames dancing in time with their mirth.

“Liked that story a lot better than the one about the babysitter.”

“Good, me too. And not just cus I got to scare you with it.”

“Tellin’ you, you didn’t scare me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Startled ain’t scared.”

“Sure looks the same.”

“Maybe to a blind girl.”

“I’m not blind. I have twenty-twenty vision.”

Daryl snorted.

“I’m glad you liked it, though, even if I still think I’m better at listenin’ to stories than tellin’ ‘em. This was fun.”

They looked at one another, smiling, Beth feeling her cheeks start to ache a little. Happy.

“Yeah,” Daryl said softly, eyes flicking up to hers and away again, fingers fiddling unconsciously with yet another twig. “Maybe tomorrow night I’ll tell you about El Cucuy.”

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence, still sitting close, arms occasionally brushing. Eventually Daryl laid down, closed his eyes, while Beth took first watch.

Oddly, the sounds of the night were not frightening.

**Author's Note:**

> Daryl Dixon has never heard of “letting it slide” and will certainly not “just go with it,” even if it means your spooky story is clubbed mercilessly in the face with a cold, hard reality check. Daryl Dixon talks a lot of shit for a guy who probably believes that ancient aliens built the pyramids. Daryl Dixon better shut up and let Beth Greene just tell her story next time, or else he’s getting a handful of walker guts down the back of his shirt when he’s not paying attention.


End file.
